Donation
by XxMildredxX
Summary: Harry and Clara decide to have a baby. They want the father to be someone tall, handsome and clever. Harry knows just the man. The only question is, how much persuasion will it take to get Sherlock to agree to donate? Fluff of the sweetest kind.


**Ellie, for you. Hope you have a marvellous evening. Enjoy!**

"I'm sorry, _what?"_

The violin missed a note and screeched to a stop. Sherlock discarded it, blinking rapidly at Harry, who was sitting primly in John's chair, hiding an amused smile and failing miserably. From the kitchen, the sound of a teacup being dropped was heard.

"What?" John emerged from the kitchen, an alarmed and terrified expression on his face. "Did I just hear that correctly?"

"You did indeed, Johnny-boy," Harry bit her lip to stop her giggles. "It was Clara's idea initially."

"Wait, wait, wait!" John held up a hand, screwing up his face in confusion. "Start again. Out of context that sounded very strange. What exactly was Clara's idea?"

"Well, as you know, Clara can't have kids," Harry proceeded, "and it was one of the points we always fought about. That, and, well, the drinking. But now I've been clean two years, John! She says she wants to start a family. We're not really in a position to adopt, and we kept fighting about it, because I wasn't sure about if I could keep it up. But now, I feel confident. We can have a child." She was beaming, and Sherlock avoided tutting in derision. People achieve one tiny goal, and they think they're invincible.

"Yeah," John said disparagingly. "What the fuck does that have to do with Sherlock?"

"Well, I said to Clara, we need to pick a worthy donor. Obviously, it will be me that will do the _bearing _side of things. So she and I said, we want someone tall, because the Watson gene isn't very strong in that aspect, and we want someone handsome obviously, and someone clever. And who do we all know who's tall, handsome and clever?" she winked at John, and looked none-too-subtly at Sherlock.

"That's ridiculous," John spluttered, and Harry gave him an _are-you-joking_ look.

"Why? He's a family friend. It's not like he's doing anything, is it?" Harry said flippantly. Sherlock opened his mouth to object- he was a very busy man!- but she beat him to it. "Go knock one out for us, Sherlock?" she nodded towards his bedroom. "You've got test tubes and stuff, haven't you? I can keep it warm in my bra."

"Harry!" John was scandalised.

Sherlock bit back a smile. Their playful banter always made him wish Mycroft was less of an arse, and Harry Watson was, to put it lightly, hysterical. She was like John, but made more inappropriate jokes, and liked to indulge in things you shouldn't. Hence the drinking. He imagined that if they'd met ten years previously, they would have had a lot of fun together free-basing crack.

"Harry, as flattered as I am, I'm sure there are services that can supply you with...the parts you need," Sherlock said calmly. At first he had been very shocked. It's not every day someone asks you to father their child (even though he'd had a few marriage proposals).

"Yeah, but you don't get to meet the guy, do you?" Harry said in a whiny tone. "At least I _know _you! You're a catch, too! Our babies will be smart _and _beautiful!"

Sherlock snorted and laughed.

"Besides, the only guys who donate to sperm banks are, well... that is to say, they _say_ they're six foot five and well built, but your baby inherits male-pattern-baldness and never grows above five foot three," Harry said frankly, and Sherlock snickered. John still looked horrified.

"Harry, just back up one moment," he said imploringly. "Just think about what you're asking."

Harry looked at him as though he were stupid. "Okay," she said slowly. She then turned back to Sherlock, a faux-serious look on her face. "Sherlock Holmes. Please can you go whack one out so I can use a turkey-baster and impregnate myself?"

Sherlock kept a straight face for John's sake.

"Harry! Please! Be serious! You're asking him to have a child with you," John said irritably. "You don't understand!"

"I understand fine, John. Clara and I love each other very much. I was so sure she was going to leave me, _forever_," she emphasised the last word, and John narrowed his eyes at her, "and now we're ready. I also know that Sherlock is not an idiot. He won't have anything to do with it if he wants. Legally, the child will be mine and Clara's. She will adopt the baby, and we will legally be its parents."

Sherlock thought that it was quite rational, to be honest.

John sighed. "It's not really my business to object, is it?"

"No, not really," Harry said loftily. "So, Sherlock. Be a dear, and go have a wank. How long do you take? Because I have a train in half an hour that I want to catch. I'm sure John will help if you ne-"

"Hey!" John objected, just as Sherlock burst out laughing.

"Will you give me some time to think about it?" he asked her, wishing that John would have Harry over more often. He'd only met her a year ago, when John deigned her sober enough to allow it.

Harry blinked, and looked a little disappointed.

"I'm not saying no, Harry," he told her, and she nodded.

"Of course," she said, brightening up fractionally. "Yes. No, of course. I'm not going to rush- yes. Take all the time you need. Thanks. Thank you."

Lestrade took that opportunity to call, and Sherlock had to say a swift goodbye, promising John he'd text him the details of the case once his sister had left.

XXX

"John, I'd like you to know that I don't consider impregnating your sister to be a trivial thing," Sherlock announced one morning. "In fact, I'm highly honoured to be chosen to be the father of your sister's child."

John was startled by the announcement, and nodded, flipping the page of his newspaper over. "Um, okay. Good."

They drank their tea in companionable silence.

XXX

"Here. Try not to make a mess." John pressed a small container with a screw-top lid into Sherlock's hand, avoiding eye-contact.

Sherlock held it up to his face. "Did you purposefully give me an undersized cup?"

John simply smirked. "No. Of course not."

XXX

Sherlock did not want to know the gory details. There were many things he thought important to know, but the idea that someone was in the doctor's room opposite, inserting his semen into Harry Watson's vagina was a little too much information, thank you very much.

He sat delicately on the plastic chair in the waiting room next to Clara, who was rattling on about nurseries, baby names, prams and baby food. She was undeniably excited, and it caused him to feel disgustingly warm inside. John said he was feeling good about doing something kind for another human being. He told John to go away.

Harry emerged half an hour later, clutching a box which had a pregnancy test in it for her to use at home.

"I need to check in an hour or so. If it hasn't worked, Holmes, I'm going to have you until it does. I don't care what John says," Harry threatened. Sherlock smiled, and let Harry and Clara walk ahead of him, hand in hand.

XXX

"It's positive!" Sherlock heard Harry screech from the bathroom. "Yes!"

He sighed in relief. Whilst he knew she had been joking, he doubted she wouldn't hold him down and force him to come until there was a successful insemination, lesbian or not.

She burst from the bathroom, and embraced Clara, kissing her. "Oh, it worked! It actually worked. We're going to do this."

Clara nodded, and kissed her wife again. Sherlock stood to get his coat. He was looking forward to returning to London and telling John the good news.

Harry shook his hand, and thanked him.

XXX

_It's a boy. Harryxx_

Sherlock blinked at his phone, his entire train of thought grinding to a halt. The corpse at his feet was forgotten momentarily.

"Oh."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked tentatively. "Got anything?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, completely thrown.

"Who was that?" John asked, standing up from inspecting the corpse.

"It- It was Harry," Sherlock muttered. "It's going to be a boy."

John's face broke out into a huge grin. "That's brilliant!"

"Who's going to be a boy?" Lestrade asked, curiously.

"My sister is having a baby," John told him.

"Congratulations!" Lestrade said, patting John on the back. "Why did Sherlock know? Or did he deduce it somehow?"

"No, she's giving me regular updates whenever she has a scan."

Lestrade still looked lost.

"I donated the sperm for Harry and her wife to have a baby," Sherlock explained. Lestrade choked slightly.

"What? You? _You _are having a baby?" he spluttered.

"No," Sherlock replied impatiently. "Harry and her wife are having a baby. I supplied the required parts."

Lestrade smiled impishly, and looked between the two men. "Well, congratulations all the same. You're having a son!"

"Yes. I suppose I am," Sherlock muttered to himself.

Then he forced his focus back onto the corpse, and began rattling off his deductions.

XXX

_We can't decide on a name. What do you think? Harry xx_

Sherlock came up blank. Five months in, and he knew Harry would be rather rotund by this point. He hadn't given much thought to the tiny thing inside her, too absorbed with other matters. However, every now and then she'd send him a sonogram or a text, and he was reminded about it.

_I don't know if you noticed, but Holmes sons tend to be called names that are guaranteed them a beating in the playground. SH_

Two minutes later, he received a reply.

_Lol! _

He rolled his eyes. So eloquent.

XXX

It was eleven at night, and the doorbell rang. Sherlock was up anyway, John was spending his evening at his girlfriend's (Melanie? Melissa? Mandy?), and he heard Mrs Hudson grumbling loudly about rude visitors.

"I'm so sorry Mrs Hudson, I-I just didn't know where else to go," the muffled sound of Harry floated up the stairs.

Sherlock stood up, wondering whether or not to go investigate, and heard Mrs Hudson reply, "Not at all, dear. He's upstairs. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No thank you, Mrs H. Caffeine and all that," came the small reply.

Sherlock deduced in a second that something bad had happened between Harry and Clara. Harry's voice was wobbly, which indicated some level of emotional turmoil, and the late hour showed that the situation had resulted in Harry getting a late train to the only other place she had relatives.

The staircase creaked, and Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself, and went to open the door.

"What's wrong?" he asked, as soon as Harry was in the threshold.

She gazed up at him for a second, before her lower lips started to tremble, and she began to cry.

"Ooh, don't..._do_..._that_," Sherlock mumbled anxiously, not liking emotional women. He put a hand on her shoulder, and steered her into the living room.

"I'm sorry Sherlock!" she cried. "I didn't know where else to come."

At six months, she was very large and round. Her back curved uncomfortably in order to accommodate her burgeoning waistline. She had a big black jumper on, not unlike one of John's, and elasticated trousers. Her hair was thoroughly windswept, and she was pushing it out of her face, due to the London weather.

"Go," Sherlock waved his hands vaguely towards the sofa, "sit. Just...go and sit down."

She nodded and shuffled over, collapsing on the cushions, and burying her face in her hands.

"What has happened?" he asked, perching on his own arm chair.

"It was stupid, really. We just started arguing, and she just wouldn't stop shouting at me, and I just had to get out of there." Harry said through her hands. "You know, where things just escalate, and the tiniest matters turn into big things?"

Sherlock nodded, having had those sorts of fights with John. Usually, though, John would never resort to screaming and shouting- he was too rational for a proper fight- and would leave before either of them could do something they'd regret.

"I mean, I know the hormones are wreaking havoc with me, and she shouldn't have to put up with me, but sometimes, I just want...I just want a little appreciation, right?" Harry asked, looking up at Sherlock, as if the awkward man would be able to offer her an insight. "It's like she resents me, for doing this."

"I was under the impression it was all her idea," Sherlock asked stiffly. Really, where was John when you needed him?

"Yes, well, but she sort of acts like I'm being ungrateful for complaining. Like I ought to be thankful for it. It's like she resents me for being able to have children, when she can't."

"Ah," Sherlock understood. Clara was jealous. "May I ask, what is it you have been complaining about?"

Harry scrunched up her face. "Back pain, feet pain, my boobs are out of control."

Sherlock blinked, and dismissed that last part as Harry Watson's own personal brand of humour.

"Cravings, sickness. Lots of sickness," she rattled off. "The morning sickness is a bitch. Indigestion, _all the time! _Nausea, headaches, cramping-"

"Cramping?" Sherlock interjected.

"Nothing out of the norm. Braxton Hicks, you know?" she clarified, and Sherlock was pacified.

"What sort of cravings?" Sherlock asked. When his own mother had been pregnant with him, she had had cravings for sawdust. His father had often had to physically pull her away from building sites.

"Weird shit, like the texture of rubber and coal. Raw rice," she added as an afterthought. "Chocolate toast, sometimes. And meat. Lots of steak, and salami. Clara's a vegetarian, so it's driving her mad."

Sherlock nodded. "Do you feel sick now?" he asked.

"No. Well, not more than usual. The train ride was a bit hectic. Doddery old codger actually _refused _to give up his seat for me, so I had to stand the whole way from Kent."

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't one for social niceties but even _he _would let a pregnant woman sit in his seat on a train.

"I just..." she let out a gusty sigh. "It's not meant to be easy. I really, really want this. With Clara. It just _hurts, _you know?"

"No," he replied frankly, and she smiled.

They sat in silence for a while, until Harry perked up.

"Oooh! Oh, come over here!" she beckoned him over, but he did not budge. "He's moving about! Come over here!"

He stood, but did not approach.

"Sherlock! You're going to miss it! Get your skinny arse over here right now!" she glared up at him, and he hesitantly went up to her.

She pulled up her sweater, and grabbed his wrist, pressing his palm to the side of her stomach. It was very hot and soft, and Sherlock felt distinctly uncomfortable with the physical contact, but under his fingers, he could feel an irregular undulating.

"He's kicking!" Harry said excitedly. "It's going to be a right motherfucker to birth."

Sherlock stared at her rotund body, and couldn't quite grasp the fact that a human being was growing inside. It seemed ridiculous. He pulled away quite sharply, but she didn't seem to care, too busy feeling her baby.

Sherlock retreated to the kitchen, and went to boil the kettle. He then peered into the fridge (it did not peer back), and got Harry a lemonade, which would hopefully help a little with the indigestion. He then scrounged the cupboards, and found his required ingredients.

He returned back with a tray. A can of lemonade, a cup of raw rice, some toast and a slab of Cadbury's he'd nicked off Mycroft from his last "visit", a block of Cheddar and a pepperoni that he'd been planning on dissolving in a homemade acid, but now decided would be put to better use if it were eaten by Harry.

She looked up at him, and gaped gormlessly at the ensemble.

"Bon appetite," he said, placing it on her lap.

She smiled weakly at him. "That's so...you're such a sweetie pie, Sherlock!"

He raised an eyebrow, then watched her devour the whole tray in less than fifteen minutes.

X

Harry slept in John's bed, and Sherlock kept vigil in the living room. She had fallen asleep on the sofa at about midnight, and Sherlock had roused her enough to half drag her up the stairs to John's bedroom, and pull the duvet around her.

At about eight in the morning, he was awoken from the doze he had sustained by the sounds of her rushing to John's bathroom and throwing up.

She emerged half an hour later, having had a shower, and looking slightly more rejuvenated.

"What do you bachelors do for breakfast?" she asked him, pottering into the kitchen.

"Well, usually John has cereal. I'm more of a toast person," Sherlock said.

"Ughr, the very idea of cereal is giving me the creeps," he heard her disgusted dissent. "Toast it is. Will John murder me if I touch his jam?"

"Most likely, yes."

"Oh, in which case, we'll do without."

Sherlock stood and joined her in the kitchen. He opened one of the cupboards and pulled out his honey. "Honey?"

"Yes dear?"

She grinned at him, and he shook his head in amusement.

"I'll leave soon," she told him. "Clara's probably suitably worried by now. Either that, or she's hooking up with Felicity Greensworth from across the road, and having violent lesbian sex up against a wall."

Sherlock allowed that last bit to wash over him, as usual. "You can stay as long as you like."

"Aw, Sherlock, that's kind, but I can't impose forever. John and I can only be in each other's company for so long, anyway," she patted his arm, and went to get the toast from the toaster.

They were eating in silence, Sherlock checking his website (somehow Harry managed to get honey all over her hands, and was licking it off) when John arrived home. He looked at the pair of them, and seemed thoroughly confused.

"Have I jumped into a parallel universe?" he asked, rubbing his head, dazedly, "or did I drink far too much last night?"

Harry giggled. "No, no. Clara and I had a fight, so I made use of your hospitality."

"A fight? Jesus, is everything okay?" John asked, shedding his coat, and grabbing Sherlock's toast and taking a bite.

"Yes, we're fine. And what the hell was that?" Harry asked, eyes boggling as Sherlock snatched his toast back. "I'm sorry, John. I seem to have spent the night with your _wife!"_

"No, no. John is definitely the wife," Sherlock muttered, scrolling through more inane people's problems, and wishing Lestrade would call.

John flicked his ear, and went to boil the kettle. "Well, you can stay as long as you want."

"Mrs Watson just said that," Harry winked at Sherlock. "But I think I need to be getting home."

"All right. Call if there's ever a problem."

"We wouldn't take John's name," Sherlock muttered, catching a forum post about a missing China tea set that was supposedly cursed. "We'd take mine."

"Sure, we would," John said sarcastically. "But we all know who'd be in charge."

"Me, obviously."

"No, me, because I would _own _you in the bedroom."

"Okay, stop!" Harry shrieked, giggling, and covering her ears with her hands. "You two!"

"How was Miranda, anyway?" Sherlock asked inanely.

"Mary."

"Whatever."

"She was fine. More than fine. We had fun," John said, a listless smile ghosting his face.

"Uhuh. Is she hot?" Harry asked.

"Umm, yeah, I suppose," John allowed. "Bit tall. Makes me look like a-"

"Hobbit?"

"I was going to say _pigmy, _but otherwise, she's very nice."

"Nice," Sherlock scoffed. "Nice is boring."

John frowned. "Yes, well, it's good to have some neutralisation, after having my eyebrows singed off by your steely glare every time I open my mouth."

"You should have seen him last night, John," Harry teased. "The very epitome of a gentleman. He was this far away from rubbing my feet." She held up her fingers about an inch apart, and Sherlock glared at her. He shut his laptop and stood up.

"Really?" John asked, incredulously. "I'm surprised he didn't kick you out onto the street."

"Oh John, my soul is burnt by your words."

"Are you going to finish that?" John asked, pointing to his half-finished toast.

Sherlock picked it up, and jammed it all into his mouth. "Yeth," he managed, cheeks bulging like a hamster.

"You're such a child," John complained, but his words had no venom.

"I swear, you two are such a _couple," _Harry laughed again, as Sherlock flounced into his bedroom.

John rolled his eyes, but then pulled out his phone. "Here. This is Mary."

He showed her a picture of a woman with dark hair and pale eyes.

"Are you sure you're not just compensating for the fine piece of meat in the next room?" Harry asked wryly, inspecting the picture. She had a delicate bone structure, too, and big chocolate coloured ringlets.

"No! Of course not! She looks nothing like Sherlock!" John protested.

"Yeah, she does," Harry ignored his splutters. Her baby started kicking in agreement. "Oh! Here, John!"

She pressed her brother's hand to the spot he was kicking, and was highly amused by his gasp and widened eyes.

"Oh, that's amazing!" he said, pressing harder.

"You should have seen Sherlock yesterday. He was properly freaking out, under that cold exterior."

John's expression turned worried. "Harry, you need to remember that he's not...normal. He's not going to respond to these things like we do. Don't push him, okay?"

Harry nodded, and covered herself up again.

In the next room, Sherlock sat, worrying about the next three months to come.

XXX

Everything went to hell ten weeks before the due date.

_He has your nose! JM_

"Fuck," Sherlock fell out of bed, dropping his phone. "Fuck. John!"

He scrambled up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and grasping for his phone again. The text message shone on the screen. "John!"

"What?" he heard his flatmate's worried but pissed off voice from the floor above him.

"Call Harry!"

"Why?"

Sherlock's bedroom door opened, and John, in his pyjamas, looked in. Sherlock passed him his phone.

"What? What the hell?"

"There's an attachment too," Sherlock pushed his unruly hair away from his eyes, and lunged for his wardrobe to get some clothes.

"It's a sonogram. Oh, fuck, Sherlock! What the hell is he playing at?" John groaned.

"Just-! Just call Harry! If she doesn't pick up, call Mycroft, immediately," Sherlock snapped, pulling off his tshirt, and hastily buttoning up a shirt.

John had a moment of panic, before allowing his soldier's instincts to take over, and get on with the order. "Mycroft?"

"Yes, Mycroft," Sherlock repeated.

"But you never-"

"I don't care! Just do it!"

John left, typing Harry's landline into the phone.

Sherlock's heart was hammering away, and he was feeling sick. He refused to use his brother's help, ever, but sometimes, desperate needs called for desperate measures.

XXX

Harry was found passed out in a motel room in Croydon. She had no recollections of her kidnap. Sherlock was very close to blowing something up, especially when the doctors told him that she was experiencing some trauma, and refused to talk.

He stepped into the ward she was being kept in- there were about eight beds, all filled with patients, and spotted Harry at the far end, near the window, with John. He was trying to coax some words out of her.

Her red-rimmed eyes flickered up when Sherlock sat down on the chair next to John, and then back down to her own hands. Sherlock swore to whatever deity that James Moriarty would burn in hell.

The doctors confirmed that her pregnancy was not affected, but it was important that she did not stress herself, for fear of a premature birth.

Clara visited, but had to go to work. She begged Harry to speak, to say she was all right, to say _anything, _but Harry just sighed, and Clara gave up.

Sherlock was frustrated. Normally he was very good at manipulating people into doing what he wanted, so why couldn't he manipulate Harry Watson? He could see John withering before his eyes.

She was in a stupor, and needed a shock, something to startle her out of her funk, get her brain back to normal Harry-levels.

It was nearing eight o'clock, when visitor's hours finished, and John returned back from the canteen with three cups of tea.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and took his cup, then threw a glance at Harry to make sure she'd pay attention, before grasping the back of John's neck and yanking him down to kiss him squarely on the mouth.

John made some sort of squeak of protestation, but Sherlock held his head tightly between his hands, ignoring John's feeble attempts to push him off, and proceeded to ravish his mouth in the most obscene way he could, for the viewing benefit of Harry.

After a good five seconds, he released John, who stumbled backwards, looking completely shocked and confused. "Um, you're welcome?"

Sherlock turned to Harry in time to see her give an audible giggle, her eyes wide as she looked at them, in both shock and amusement. The baby must have kicked at that point, because she pressed her hand to her stomach, and stilled. "Oh. He's moving again."

John looked at Sherlock in triumph, but said nothing.

As they were leaving and hailing a cab, John paused momentarily. "Thank you. And I swear to God, if you ever do that again, I'll bite you."

Sherlock just grinned.

XXX

Sherlock was glaring at his mother, his fingers itching for his violin, but knowing better than to do anything but give Mrs Holmes his complete attention. Hell hath no fury, especially where Mrs Holmes was concerned.

"I absolutely cannot believe you have done this, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes snapped angrily. Sherlock intensified his glare- all his life he had put up with his ridiculous family, and now he would not stand a moment of it.

"I wasn't aware it was any of your concern," he bit back in a low voice.

"Any of _my concern! _Idiot boy! It is my every concern! A child, Sherlock! Do you know what that even means? It means your _son," _she said the word with distaste, "is the legal heir to the property, to the title, to the _money. _Does that mean nothing to you? Generations of careful breeding, meticulous selection, in order to maintain this lineage, and you decide to procreate with whatever slut passes your way."

Sherlock stiffened, and frigid fury passed through his veins instead of blood. His blood may as well have been ice, for blood was nothing to him now, sitting opposite his own mother.

"Mother, Harriet is a very close friend of mine, and I am doing her a favour. It has nothing to do with money or _lineage. _The child will have nothing to do with me. He won't even have my name, for Christ's sake!" he said through gritted teeth.

"One would think you've lost your mind, spending your time with such _simple minded people," _she said, emphasising the insults, and shaking her head in despair. "Five years ago, Sherlock, and you would not be like this! You would not be so rash, or soft-touched! It's disgraceful! And to have a baby out of wedlock! What is wrong with you?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, like John did when Sherlock was being insufferable, and tried to ignore her.

"Your father and I raised you better than this! We raised you to have discipline, and control, and-"

"No, mother," Sherlock interrupted harshly. "You did nothing of the sort. You and Father did _nothing _for me _or _Mycroft. Can you blame me? Can you blame me for wanting another woman to be happy? For _me _to be happy?"

"Don't be belligerent, Sherlock, it's unbecoming," Mrs Holmes said spitefully.

"I am not belligerent, Mother, I am _rational. _Rational and realistic! We live in the twenty first century, Mother. You may not accept my actions, but I do not need your approval," he said angrily, standing up abruptly. "I will not tolerate anymore of this. Cut me out, leave me behind, I don't care. I will not hear you say another word against my friends."

Mrs Holmes narrowed her eyes at him malignantly. "Your _friends? _Oh, this is rich! Sherlock, you have no idea. You are a clueless, _stupid _boy!" she stood also, and pulled her coat tightly around her. "Expect nothing of our estate to pass on to your...your..._spawn! _I have no time for any bastard child."

She swept away, leaving Sherlock rooted to the spot in dissipating fury, hatred, shock and numbness. She slammed the door and was gone.

He couldn't move. He was six years old again, and he needed... he needed...Mycroft. To tuck him into bed, to tell him it's okay. That the angry stranger, with the black curly hair and accentuated lips, at the door shouting at Mummy and Father, was just that: a stranger. That Mummy would never, _ever _lie to Father. Right?

He didn't know when, it could have been only a couple of minutes, but the living room door opened slowly. It was John. He peered around the door tentatively.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

"John," Sherlock replied thickly. "Do come in. I assure you, the unnecessary drama is over. I trust you heard enough?"

"Yeah. More or less," John said quietly, coming in. "She didn't notice me on her way out."

"Hag," Sherlock muttered, before collapsing on his armchair again.

"What's...what's wrong?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed deeply. "She's got such archaic fundamentals ingrained in her head. That and the guilt."

"Guilt?"

"Mycroft and I are only half brothers."

"Oh."

"She had an affair whilst our father was out of the country briefly, but managed to pass it off. She always denied it, vehemently. I had already worked it out by the time I was six. Then her lover came to the house one night. Mycroft locked us in his room until they had all stopped fighting. I can remember it even now."

"Oh, Sherlock," John said gently. He pressed a hand to Sherlock's shoulder.

"I suppose she always hated me. I remind her of her..._imperfection," _Sherlock said bitterly.

"Did you-" John cleared his throat. "Did you ever find your biological dad?"

"Yes. He was a journalist. He died in the Gulf War. We met once. I was fifteen," Sherlock replied mechanically, betraying only a hint of emotion with the twitch of one eyebrow. John nodded, and squeezed his shoulder.

"Tea?" he offered, and Sherlock managed a small smile.

John busied himself in the kitchen, and heard Sherlock from the other room.

"It won't be like it was with me, John," Sherlock called through. "I didn't do this with Harry to right the wrongs of my own past. I did it for her. And for you."

John returned to the living room with two mugs of tea, and pressed one into Sherlock's hand. "I know. And we love you for it."

XXX

John and Sherlock were standing outside the delivery room. Harry's ardent swearing could be heard from down the corridor. John winced every time her cries increased in volume. Sherlock blushed every time Harry used expletives he could only imagine coming out of drunken Elizabethan sailors.

A good ten minutes passed, and Sherlock could hear Harry sobbing and gasping, whilst swearing, and the midwife telling her to be quiet and push.

A clicking noise, and a set of footsteps greeted them, and Sherlock looked up from his contemplation of the floor, to see Mycroft strolling down the maternity ward, a large package in hand.

"Ah, you decided to show your ugly face?" Sherlock mumbled, as Harry cursed the mother of whatever _'Uncle-fucking, cock-sucking, cave-dwelling, syphilis-ridden, dirty, bastard, pillow-biting, whore-mongering, cocaine-snorting, wanker-face' _that decided to impregnate her. Sherlock didn't know if it referred to himself or not.

"Yes, I did. Ms Watson deserves a few gifts, does she not?" Mycroft said pleasantly, unperturbed by the noise. "I hope you got her something."

"Other than the gift of motherhood?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, but somewhat sullenly.

Mycroft gave a light smile. John looked between them, noticing for the first time a reason why their relationship was so strained. The news of the Holmes brother's blood-line had explained a fair few points (why they looked so drastically different, and yet so subtly similar) but as far as John could tell, Mycroft neither blamed Sherlock, nor Sherlock blamed Mycroft, for their mother's lie.

"Well, if I know Harriet at all, I know that she would appreciate a nice present after her hard labour," Mycroft said genially. "I bought her a little something." He held out the parcel.

"You don't know her at all," John said with a laugh, but accepted the present with thanks. "And you're wrong. He did buy her something."

Mycroft raised his chin in curiosity. "Oh yes?"

Sherlock jerked his head towards John, who pulled out of his pocket a small jewellery case. He snapped it open, and inside was an eternity ring with a thin line of black diamonds.

"How...interesting," Mycroft muttered.

"It represents the eternity of children," John explained. "I picked it. She'll like the symbolism."

"And I paid," Sherlock added. "Because apparently it's _my remit."_

"Indeed it is," Mycroft agreed with a smile.

"What did you get her?" John asked.

"A baby suit, and a box of chocolates."

"Oh, you _do _know how to wheedle your way into a woman's heart," Sherlock sniped.

"Yes, well, as you said, the gift of motherhood had been covered by someone else," Mycroft retorted, and Sherlock closed his mouth.

At that moment, the door to the delivery room opened, and a haggard nurse with an abundantly large nose poked his head out. "You can come in now."

John practically skipped through, pushing the Holmes boys out of the way, to see his nephew.

"Oh, John, isn't he _hideous!" _Harry sang out, sitting up in the bed, a glowing smile on her face, covered in sweat and looking fit to drop. Clara was wedged beside her, stroking the bundle in Harry's arms.

John hurried forward to look at the infant, whose face was red and slightly puffy. He had a blue hat on, and was wrapped tightly in white blankets. He was pouting, staring up at the world with big blue eyes.

"Jesus Christ," he heard Sherlock mutter behind him, and turned just in time to see his fully grown I-can-take-corpses-who-have-had-their-innards-removed flatmate faint into his brother's arms.

X

Sherlock awoke to someone slapping his face.

"Huh?" he moaned, blinking at the harsh light.

"Wake up, you baboon."

It was John, who was holding something in his hand. Sherlock only just registered the blurry outline of a cup of water, and formed a feeble protest, before John was upturning the contents of the cup over his face. Icy water caused him to splutter and cough in indignation, but thoroughly woke him up.

He realised he was lying across two chairs in the waiting room of the maternity ward, and John was leaning over him.

"Whazgoinon?" he muttered, sitting up too quickly and getting head rush. Cold water trickled down his shirt, and his hair dripped.

"You fool," John said good-naturedly. "You fainted."

"No I didn't," Sherlock denied, blinking hard.

"Yes, you did," John said, clearly amused. "You dropped like a stone at the first look at him. Who would have thought? Evil criminal mastermind? Pff, no big deal! New born baby? Aaaah, run!"

John giggled at his own joke, but Sherlock frowned. "How long was I out?"

"Five minutes. Harry's been moved to the ward now, with the other mums. Mycroft and Clara are with her."

"Let's go, then," Sherlock stood up, picking at his wet shirt.

"Sure you're not going to have a seizure? Heart attack? Aneurysm?"

"Shut up."

"Never."

He followed John to the ward, where the sound of crying babies could be heard. Sherlock cringed. He disliked babies on a high level.

"John! What is the date?" he asked suddenly.

"Twenty ninth of February. Why?"

"He's a leap year baby," Sherlock observed.

"Oh. Well. Yes."

The ward had seven mothers, surrounded by husbands, family or friends. Harry was the first on the left, and she was sniffling quietly into a tissue, as Mycroft rocked the bundle in his arms and Clara watched on.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're awake," he said, smiling. "Look! Isn't he sweet!"

"Alert Gatwick of the flying pigs," Sherlock muttered audibly to John, who sniggered.

"Y-yes, look Sherlock," Harry sniffed, wiping her eyes. "Isn't he lovely." Her lip trembled, and two fat years fell out of her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, worried that something had gone badly.

"Oh, nothing," Clara said for her wife. "It's the hormones. Perfectly natural."

"Well, um, okay. But do try and stop it," Sherlock told her, and Harry gave a watery laugh.

"Look!" Mycroft said, walking over to Sherlock and leaning in. "Look at all that hair!"

He had pushed the little blue hat off the boy's head, and shiny, wet-looking black hair fell over his head.

"You're quite enthralled, aren't you?" Sherlock asked his brother, shrewdly.

"Not at all," Mycroft replied, with his usual haughty manner, but it was ruined by his smile.

Sherlock stared at the tiny little face- he was still awake, and staring back at Sherlock intently. As a scientist, Sherlock knew there was no way the baby was aware of what he was looking at, but he continued to look at him nonetheless.

"Aw, he's very cute," John said, coming up to them and pulling on Mycroft's arm to have a look. "Hopefully less Watson, and more Holmes."

"I disagree. The less Holmes, the better," Sherlock argued.

"Well, he's got Watson ears," Harry piped up. "That's probably why it hurt like a bitch to birth. Those great big huge ears!"

Sherlock smiled at her joke, but was suddenly alarmed when Mycroft began to dump the baby into his arms. "Hang on! Wait, no!"

"Just hold him! Stop being such a child," Mycroft chastised.

Sherlock organised himself wonkily, so that the boy wouldn't be crooked, and held himself stiffly. He grimaced down at the child. "What's his name?"

"I dunno. We couldn't decide," Harry said.

"I like _Albert," _Clara said.

"No. I had a boyfriend once, called Albert," John said immediately. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh yeah, Holmes, you better believe it. _Boyfriend. _When I was twenty two. Didn't last long. I caught him in our bed with another woman."

"What about _Abercorn?" _Mycroft swiftly changed the subject, frowning at John.

"That's fucking ridiculous," Harry said bluntly.

"Isn't that a character from Harry Potter?" Clara asked, puzzled.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Frederick?" Harry suggested.

"Mundane," Clara disagreed.

"Ichabod," Mycroft spoke.

"Fuck off, Holmes."

"Charlie?" John said.

"We owned a dog who was called Charles," Mycroft said.

"What about Elijah?" Clara asked.

"Wood?" John asked sarcastically. "My nephew is not a H-"

"What about Oliver?" Harry interrupted.

Sherlock watched on in amusement, cradling the little boy, who yawned, as if the whole affair was boring him, and closed his eyes to sleep.

"Galileo?"

"Mycroft, if you speak again..." Harry warned, and Mycroft shut up.

"What about you, Sherlock?" Clara asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up, and all of them were looking at him expectantly. "Oh. I don't know."

"James?" Clara suggested.

"Hell to the no," Sherlock muttered, watching the baby part his pink lips to breathe, as he slept.

John snorted. "Yeah, God no. How about Gus?"

"Augustus?" Mycroft perked up. "A fine name!"

"No! Too pompous for him. He looks simpler than that," Harry disagreed.

"Simpler? Jack. Reece. Bruce. Henry. Max. Alex. Peter," John reeled off. "George? Paul?"

"Ringo?" Mycroft smirked.

"John?" Sherlock completed the names of The Beatles without thinking about it. All of them fell silent.

"John?" Harry asked, wrinkling her nose, and looking at her brother. John himself looked startled. He stared at Sherlock, who stared back. There was a very tense moment, broken by Clara.

"I like John," she said quietly.

Sherlock didn't really know how to react to John's stare, and was starting to squirm a bit. He hastily looked back down at the baby. He was breathing deeply in his sleep, rhythmically.

Mycroft was surveying his little brother carefully, unused to seeing him in such a vulnerable, emotional way. Harry said nothing. John continued to look at Sherlock, his face a mixture of surprised shock and what seemed to Mycroft to be burning happiness. Mycroft wasn't well versed in true happiness- he did spend his day with politicians, after all- but he was very, very good at reading people.

At that point, a nurse came into their separated area, and greeted them all.

"Hello! Ms Watson? I'm here to help you with any post-natal problems, and for a check up?" she asked brightly. "If I could ask your family to step outside. Sir, if you would give me the baby?" she held out her arms to Sherlock, who carefully deposited the baby in her grip.

Harry waved them goodbye as they all stepped out of her cubicle. Clara said something about lunch, and headed with Mycroft to the canteen. Sherlock glanced at John for a moment, before following them.

"Hang on," John grabbed his wrist and held him back as Mycroft and Clara disappeared in the lift. "Did you mean it? Or were you joking?"

"I-I wasn't joking," Sherlock acquiesced.

"But you don't want to name him Ethelbert or Ingrid or something?" John checked, eyeing Sherlock carefully.

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "I have no opinion in the matter. It's Harry and Clara's decision."

"Okay," John said calmly. Sherlock moved to press the button to call for the lift again, but was buffeted to the side by John hugging him tightly.

"Go-od, John!" Sherlock wheezed, feeling ribs creak in protest. John did not let go, but squeezed tighter, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder. "C-can't...breathe!"

John let go of him abruptly, and cleared his throat. They both stood there, Sherlock rubbing his ribs, John appearing as stoical as ever, waiting for the lift to arrive. They caught each other's eye, and looked away, before both starting to giggle like children.

XXX

As had been planned, Harry and Clara moved to the country after six months, out of their flat in Kent, and into a large farm-house in East Sussex. Sherlock had no opportunity to make the trip to visit them until nine months after John was born.

He was startled into silence by the fat child sitting in his highchair in the kitchen, throwing banana around. He was rosy and smiling, with a mop of black curly hair on his head, but the Watson upturned nose, the Watson chin, and the famous Watson ears. He felt something, and wondered if this was how _his _biological father felt when he had seen Sherlock for the first time, as a six year old boy, being brought up by another man.

Harry greeted him, a slightly manic look in her eyes. She got right up into his face, with a crazed grin. "I haven't slept in nine months," she whispered, and he laughed.

Clara was at work, so Sherlock helped Harry cook dinner, clean up a bit, and let Harry have a nap, whilst entertaining the baby. He took a picture on his phone and sent it to John in London.

_How adorable! _

Sherlock smiled at John's reply, and returned his attention to the child.

"Hello, John," he said, holding up a teddy bear and showing it to the infant. "How are you?"

He got gurgles and giggles in return, as chubby fists tried to grab the toy.

"John," Sherlock repeated. "Do you like the name John? I picked it. After your Uncle. He's a very good man. You should want to be like your Uncle. Uncle John."

More incoherent noises.

"He loves you very much, you know. So does Mummy, and so does your other Mummy. And – and so does Daddy. Daddy loves you very much, John." He pressed a soft kiss to the boy's head.

Small hands grabbed his face, and pulled on his nose.

"One day, you'll be big, and we'll spend lots of time together. When I'm not busy, and when you're not busy with your Mummies. But for now, we're both rather busy, aren't we?" Sherlock rambled on, shaking the teddy in front of John, who discarded Sherlock's nose in return for the toy.

He heard a click, and looked up to see Harry taking a photograph on a camera.

She grinned at him.

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"What do you think?"

XXX

**I hope you liked it! It's a little rushed, but I just wanted to get it out.**

**My other Work In Progress is...uh...in progress. **

**I felt like some shameless fluff. It was my birthday the other day. This is my birthday present to myself. That, and the Westwood jacket and dress. I feel like Moriarty. Because Moriarty spends his time wearing Westwood and writing Sherlock fanfiction. You know it, I know it, his mother knows it.**

**Review! Review like it's a kissing booth and Benedict Cumberbatch is giving a kiss for every review! **

**Review like it will transport you into a parallel universe where you live with Sherlock and John, and get to watch them having sex every day! **

**Review because this is 7k words of fluff! We all love fluff!**

**Please! I beg you!**

**Mx**


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